


celestial bodies

by newsbypostcard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Body Worship, Feelings, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 21:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8939185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: They haven't slept much and Steve looks at Bucky between languorous kisses and smiles, like he doesn't mean to. His thumbs stroke at Bucky's jaw, at his clavicle; his fingers follow ribs, shoulders, before he brings Bucky's face to his and kisses him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Небесные светила](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006117) by [Christoph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christoph/pseuds/Christoph), [fandom_EvanstanStarbucks_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_EvanstanStarbucks_2017/pseuds/fandom_EvanstanStarbucks_2017)



> this began as "three pleasant moments" and became this, which is apparently -- subconsciously -- yet another attempt at my desire to put the analogy of "quantum entanglement" into fic. this fic isn't that complicated and does not contain those words, but it is experimental, as ever. thank you for reading.
> 
> "why is soft a tag" it just issss

  


  


* * *

  


  


Here:

Sometimes, when the frantic tides of the world ebb low enough, there is stillness to be found. Even here in the city, on a Monday or Tuesday night, if you listen close enough there is a moment just after three in the morning when the world quells its angry roar and simply _is._

Bucky likes these moments. If he's not going to sleep, he is at least privileged to look out at the moon, to look over these lights and breathe them in as though they were the stars themselves. The chill of the night comforts him; almost lulls him, like suspension in amber.

The pads of Steve's fingers brush at his wrist, and that's all it takes to bring him back.

It's pleasant; Bucky likes to be brought back this way. Steve knows how to touch him by now; knows how not to startle him in a state of such quietness. Bucky turns to him and opens his palm and lets Steve trace the veins, muscle, sinew of his arm. Steve touches him with such gentility these days, as though he was precious, and Bucky can't always stand it but in moments like these…

He gives a quiet sigh, tired and peaceful.

Wordless, soundless, Steve steps into his space.

He puts his free hand at Bucky's neck; sets his lips at his brow. They purse at the warmth of his skin, and here -- Steve waits. Bucky knows he's shut his eyes; knows he's taken in the stillness as much as he has Bucky. He knows Steve's noticed it. Steve always notices things like this.

Bucky noses at Steve's skin; sighs again, presses their faces flush together. He sets an open mouth at Steve's jaw, wanting and inquisitive, and the hand that Steve's not stroking light at his wrist comes up to tilt his head to the sky.

When Steve leans in, Bucky kisses with his mouth open -- slow, at peace, and _still_ , as though pouring the moment between them. He teases the strands of Steve's hair between his fingers and tugs him down -- deeper; open; alive. 

Steve just strokes those fingers at Bucky's wrist, soft as anything, until Bucky pulls back; and then Steve chases, his tongue moving flush over Bucky's lips and into his mouth. The moment is seized again; he holds firm against Bucky and tips him, deep, into that stillness: opening, yearning, with every stroke of his tongue.

Here: the world falls away. They slip into orbit.

They don't hear a thing.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Warmth, from sunlight, on his exposed cheek.

Steve likes the light. They haven't slept much and he looks at Bucky between languorous kisses and smiles, like he doesn't mean to. His thumbs stroke at Bucky's jaw, at his clavicle; his fingers follow ribs, shoulders, before he brings Bucky's face to his and kisses him like he is the Earth itself.

Bucky clings to him a little needier, with whole hands and a rasp in his throat.

Bucky likes the light, but he loves the _friction_. In the light of day, Steve is solid; Steve is real. There's something in the squint of his eyes and the easy bend of his hand where it rests at Bucky's face that makes Bucky love him, makes him _want_ all the more; makes him wish he would put that supple palm to use and give him enough to make him weak.

Steve is intoxicating: bright; undeniable.

"I want you," Bucky says, like a prayer.

Steve smiles against his lips. "I'm already here," he says, and laughs at Bucky's scowl.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Steve is masterful. He works him open at the kind of languid pace that makes Bucky consider religion again. Steve's fingers are calloused and perfect and Bucky's hips seek friction; Steve laughs into his mouth and stills him, slots his tongue along his lips, and crooks his fingers to make him feel.

Bucky wants to endure this forever -- for Steve; for himself. He burns. His breath starts to hitch with every scissor and stroke; there is not much more he can take. The patch of sun has moved to his back where the blankets hang off his hips and he is sweating, furious and desperate; he needs more, he needs _something_ \--

The coil in his gut grows too hot, and his hips jut forward again, automatic. "Fuck," he whispers; he grips tight at Steve's hair. He forces his hips to still and says this time, "Goddamn."

Steve seems elated; he is always elated by Bucky, these days. "I wanna fuck you," Steve mutters. "That okay?"

It is, _god_ it is; Bucky nods and makes a sound in his throat, and Steve kisses him and then pulls away. Bucky sends him off with a breaking moan; feels the sun on his spine, warm and life-giving.

"Hands and knees," Steve says. His voice is so soft; his hands, much more firm.

Bucky goes where Steve leads him and ducks his head. It's colder, out of the blankets. It's colder without him. 

"Maybe I want more of you," Bucky says.

"I'm doing it this way to give you more. Trust me?"

It's a question; Bucky's nodding before it's even out. "Yeah."

Steve's fingers again, teasing, dripping with lube; a guiding hand sets at his hip. "You want me pretty bad, huh?"

Bucky nods again. "Yeah. You noticed that?"

Steve tests his fingers deeper; Bucky swears, makes a fist against the bed. "How bad do you want it?" Steve asks.

"Totally." It's a mantra, the words not his own. "All of it. Fuck."

"Sure?" He twists, gentle; the pressure of knuckles, then slick as they breach.

"Oh, god. Yeah."

"I'm gonna give it to you, Buck."

"Fuck me, god, Jesus Christ."

It's a proclamation and not a command, but Steve seems to take it as such regardless; his fingers disappear and there's a wet sound, like he's stroking himself off with a lube-slicked hand. Bucky moans, his head drops; he's so fucking turned on and he's not even being touched.

"You can trust me, Buck," Steve reminds him, a hot hand on his hip.

In the warmth of the sun, Bucky nods.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Trust is the thing that gets him off: knowing, with the head of Steve's cock pressed against him like this, that Bucky is going to get fucked within an inch of his life.

Eventually.

Steve's fingers guide; they hold Bucky in place as well as himself. "Your back," he says, and palms against it.

"Fuck," Bucky says, in sweating anticipation. " _Really?_ "

"You are -- so beautiful, Buck."

"Don't care from beautiful, care from coming."

Steve is amused. He adjusts his hips; the length of his cock skates over the cleft of his ass. Bucky clenches his fist and tries not to push back. 

"You'll do as I ask," Steve says, so warm. It's a statement of confidence, not a command. Bucky has, since Steve woke him up kissing, refrained from touching himself at Steve's request; it's one Bucky happily upholds.

Though -- it is a strain, at the moment. Bucky's cock is hard and his hips want to move, and Steve is treating him like a work of art. It's intoxicating; it's infuriating.

"The hell are you waiting for?" Bucky asks.

All at once, Steve leans his weight forward onto one fist. His other hand skates up by Bucky's shoulder, his knees nudging Bucky's apart one at a time. Bucky's stance is soon precarious; his arms are holding most of his weight, and it's a test of his strength, a delicious one. Heat pools and unfurls in his gut, and Steve reaches beneath them and adjusts the angle of his cock against his ass.

Steve's mouth at his ear: "Bend that precious back of yours for me, Buck."

Oh, god, the heat of his breath, the drape of him over every inch; Steve's legs are flush with Bucky's, there are so many points of contact. Bucky'd doubted him but this is so much, and Steve's request is absurd; from what Steve's done, his back already feels to be bending. His ass must be clear in the air. 

From the grip of Steve's hand at the flesh of him, Steve already knows that. 

Bucky bends anyway, because he's been asked. He feels the strain in his back and shudders. " _Oh,_ " he says.

"Still want me?" Steve's teeth, tracing the shell of his ear. "Like this?"

"Yes, god, yes," Bucky says.

Then Steve is pushing in, his breath glancing off Bucky's skin.

It's slow, _god_ it's slow; Bucky pants through it, and it sears through so much of him. His muscles burn, his arms, his abs, his back, his ass, _fuck_ ; Steve knows him so thoroughly, knows how to wreck him, knows how to make it feel like a gift every second.

"Good?" Steve asks. His voice is a worn husk in his ear and Bucky's so fucking hard.

"God," Bucky manages, before Steve pulls out. He pushes in again; Bucky's arms shake until he has to collapse to one elbow. Steve follows, pastes his chest against Bucky's shoulders; his hand perches against the bed, the other planted against his chest, halfway holding him upright, as though doing him a _favour_.

"You feel," Steve says, and for all his control, it cracks, here. He moves his mouth to Bucky's temple from his ear and kisses at it, gentle again, as he drags his hips back and pushes back in.

"Fuck me," Bucky says, and it's all he can say; it's the only thing he wants in the world. "Fuck -- me. Fuck me, fuck--"

Steve fucks him, in slow, languid pumps.

On some distant level, he feels the sun against his arm.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Here:

Steve loves him. Steve loves him in the kind of way that makes Bucky feel alive. In the moments like these when Bucky is completely at his mercy, he knows that he is; he knows that he is gone, that Steve can do whatever he wants. Bucky lets him. He didn't always. It took months and months to remember himself, after they cleared him of the programming; it took more than a year to look at Steve and remember that he isn't a figment. To remember that Steve really did come for him. That he really does know him.

Someone -- other than Bucky -- knows who Bucky is.

Steve knows him so well that he read the way his mouth met with Steve's a certain way and discerned that Bucky wanted _this_. He wanted to be taken just in this way. He wanted this man who is the sun to take him up in his arms and to warm him up with all that he is, until life burns in him so bright that he seems to suffer with it, to collapse under its weight.

This man who is the sun holds him half upright as he's buried in him to the hilt and he's whispering sweet nothings against Bucky's temple -- the kind of thing that would make Bucky embarrassed if he wasn't already lost to a litany of stuttering moans. Steve pulls out and pushes in with the full length of him, still agonizingly slow, and Bucky's only recourse is to take it; to let the sound shudder out of him with every stretching inch, with every pump of Steve's hips, with the way he's been filled and hollowed to fit Steve in his entirety.

"That's perfect, Bucky," Steve whispers, and with his face in Bucky's neck, there's a stutter to it, like a loss of control. "Perfect; you're perfect."

It's so far-fetched as to be laughable, but heat only pools in his balls; he moans and ducks his face away.

Steve's hand adjusts and spreads at his hip, and Bucky leans forward, needing somewhere to brace his head. It is not the reprieve he'd hoped; it gives Steve a new angle, his fingers gripping at Bucky's hip. His pace picks up, then Steve's thumb and forefinger, at _long_ last, brush in a teasing circle over the head of Bucky's cock. 

"Oh," Steve says, lustful and matter-of-fact.

Bucky scrambles his hands into fists against the sheets. Steve's not stroking him in rhythm with his thrusts; he intends to drive him mad. " _Fuck,_ " he says, nearly sobbing.

"Did you come already, Bucky?"

"No," Bucky says. "No, no--"

"You didn't?"

"No."

"I got all this out of you just by fucking you, then?"

"Fuck," Bucky says again; Steve has gathered all the precum he can find off from Bucky's dick and used it as lube to stroke down the whole length of him. "Oh, fuck, _fuck--_ "

Steve buries in him, once more, with purpose; then he strokes his fingers off Bucky's cock, slow, at the same time that he withdraws.

Bucky's whole _body_ shudders; he gasps into the bed. It's so much and not enough; it's not right, he needs -- 

"God, Steve, I can't."

"You can."

"I can't -- without you."

Steve pauses, a second, withdrawn from him; he grasps his whole palm around the head of Bucky's cock and Bucky tries his damndest not to cant his hips into his grip.

"Okay," Steve says, quiet and steadied, and then his hand is gone but Steve's leaning overtop of him; his grip adjusts Bucky's hips and his knees are gone from alongside his. Steve guides him slow, steady, closer to the bed, leaning with him as he stays buried in him. "I got you," Steve says, and entwines his fingers with Bucky's against the sheets. "You'll have to rut against the bed as I fuck you. Is that okay?"

"Yes," Bucky says, so relieved to be warm again; to feel the sun on his skin. "Yes, please, yes, yes, please, _yes--_ "

And this is easier, _so_ much easier; Steve's muttering at his temple again, breath hot, voice low, and every thrust sends Bucky's hips skating over the sheets. Here, Steve hitting a pace and leaving Bucky groaning deep and guttural, he finds the friction he's so badly wanted and been denied; but in return he has gotten _this_ : heat, coiling and growing in his gut until he's been left to believe he deserved release just because he survived.

"Steve," Bucky whispers, because his throat's gone tight; he is at home, here, he is alive, and he is thankful to be it.

"Bucky," Steve is saying, his own orgasm building close, "Bucky, you're, Bucky, you're _so--_ "

Steve's fingers tense between Bucky's own; they are a shaking mess, hot and sweating, and Bucky comes right before Steve does, fucking himself against the mattress under Steve's weight. He feels whole, exhaustive relief at the way Steve fills him; and with Steve's lips at his skin, he falls into stillness.

Here: the world falls away.

In the mid-morning sun, they sleep until noon.

  


  


  



End file.
